I'm on a bus (this bus is real!)

On my way to NYC for an audition and a meeting with my agent tomorrow.  The only perk of riding the bus is the use of outlets that power my macbook and thereby keep me entertained with the third season of West Wing.  Additionally, there's an adorable little black lab service dog sitting in the seat in front of me who keeps looking back and making sweet eyes at me.  I know she wants my peanut m&ms, but she's not getting a one.  

I'm also going to meet up with one of my singer/runner friends for a visit - our first face to face since probably last winter.  We encourage one another's crazy career pursuits (namely this singing thing) and our even crazier extra-curricular activities, that bonkers idea that's called running.  My church runs an urban youth group every summer, and they have started a running club.  Because the associate organist is a dear friend and a marathoner, he's persuaded me to join said running club and, this is the real clincher, to run the Boston half marathon with them in October.  I must be losing my mind.  

Yesterday was my first run with them.  I was in the second group, renamed the "slinky" group so as not to call ourselves that other word that starts with "s" and might indicate our general pace.  I did not grow up running.  I did not engage in activities that required running.  I played piano and did ballet and sang in choir.  I spent approximately four months leading up to prom my senior year working my behind into shape for said prom (sidebar: let's talk about how good my ass looks in those pictures, shall we?) and as soon as prom was over, I promptly went back to my books.  I ran five miles yesterday with a group of kids, along the Charles River and over the bridges and back, and I tell you what.  My legs feel fine.  My glutes feel fine.  But my knees, oooooohhhh my knees.  Only going down stairs, not up.  And when I get off this bus, they are not going to be happy with me.  Five miles down, a little over eight more to go.  Oy.  I have eleven weeks to get this together, because I'm running with this team and, if yesterday was any indication, I just might be the timer and pacer.  Slow and steady, that's me.  Watch out for the goose poop, single file on the bridge, stretch out your calves every time we stop.  

Other than the running, I had a lovely weekend in Chicago doing an audition.  I got all dolled up in my new dress (care of the dress barn 50% off sale rack - score!) and my pewter pumps that make my legs look killer, and Spanx that, well you know what they do.  I was all set to roll out the new rep.  I've been practicing and working myself through this Bellini aria and some Baby Doe, embracing a more vulnerable side of my singing, trying to show a little more lyricism.  I'm all set to pull it out, terrified that I even wrote it down on my rep sheet (that means it's possible for them to ask me to sing it oh crap) and the pianist seems a little unsure and what do they ask for?  

Mozart.  Queen of the night.  First aria.  

So I'm still dizzy with fear when the piano starts, but the Queen is an old friend and I smoked it.  Now it's all about wait and see.  I hate wait and see.  But I love the art institute and the field museum and old friends and dinosaurs and Seurat.  And I'm going to try to zen out on this bus until we get out of Connecticut.  Maybe the little black labbie will look back at me again.